Simply Complicated
by smithereen
Summary: The line between friendship and something else is very thin. PeytonBrooke


**Simply Complicated**

Sometimes things were simple.

The two of them flying down the deserted streets in the middle of the night with the top down. Singing at the top of their lungs to "Let's Hear it For the Boy." Peyton, if questioned later, would forever deny knowing the words to something so lame. She had serious rocker-chick street cred to protect after all. But right now it was just the two of them. And she was singing even louder than Brooke was, and doing a better job with the words too, since she wasn't as drunk.

No, she wasn't drunk. Just pleasantly buzzed. Just buzzed enough to turn the world a little bit blurry and gold around the edges.

Sometimes things were complicated.

They hit a stoplight, and she turned to look at Brooke. And Brooke was bopping in her seat, and scattering the blurry gold light of the streetlamp above them with her fingers when she threw her arms up over her head.

Brooke was a little bit blurry too. And gold. The light shining on her hair, on her fingers as she wove them through the air. She was laughing with her head thrown back as far as it could go, and Peyton wanted to put her palm flat against the long length of her neck, connect the graceful sweep of her collarbone with the dark curve where her earlobe turned into jawline. Wanted so badly to touch it, touch her, that the song broke apart in her mouth, and she stuttered to silence.

The light turned green. Peyton looked away.

Sometimes things were simple.

The sun was setting in a splash of red and orange as they walked down the beach, waves casting froth around their ankles before rolling back into the sea again. The air was heavy with salt and humidity, and Peyton put her hand up to shade her eyes as she stared out over the water toward the horizon that hid her dad's ship somewhere out there. Brooke caught up with her laughing, and flipped at her hair as she ran past toward the dock. Peyton followed, panting, churning sand and sea spray as she ran.

Brooke flopped down before she reached the dock, and lay on her back in the sand. She reached out and grabbed Peyton's leg as she passed, pulling until Peyton flopped down with her.

"Come on, P. Sawyer," Brooke said. "Let's make sand angels." She spread her legs and arms, displacing sand in wide arcs. Peyton did the same. The sand shifted under her. It was cool underneath the warm top layer. Brooke pointed up at the darkening sky, toward a few faint stars emerging.

"That's Orion's Belt," she said confidently.

"It is not," Peyton laughed.

Brooke cocked her head. "It could be."

Peyton shrugged.

"What is it then?

"I don't know, but it's not Orion's Belt. That's the only constellation I learned."

"Fine." She pointed again, moving her finger to trace the vaguely circular shape the stars made. "It's P. Sawyer's record player." She turned over and grinned. There was sand in her hair, and her nose and cheeks were touched lightly with red where she hadn't worn enough sunscreen.

Peyton looked up at the sky, and watched her own fingers tracing the same stars. She smiled. "No, it's Brooke Davis's hot tub."

Brooke laughed her throaty, deep laugh, and turned over again. They both stared up and put their hands against the sky, tracing patterns with their fingertips.

Sometimes things were complicated.

"Brooke!" Tim called them from down the beach. "Peyton!" Brooke sat up, and looked around. Her hands were warm when she reached for Peyton and pulled her up, warm and covered in sand. She held on, swinging their hands together, pulling Peyton along as she started to run again, back toward Tim and the party at Nathan's house.

"Nathan's looking for you," Tim said when they got close enough.

"Like I give a shit," Peyton snorted. Her hand was sweaty in Brooke's hand.

Brooke grabbed Tim's beer as they ran past. "Hey!"

"Thanks, Tim," Brooke giggled. She tripped in some sand, and the two of them went down near the house. The beer flew up, then down with them, wet and cold and sliding over Peyton's arm. She was laughing, and then Brooke's tongue flicked over her wet with beer shoulder and she froze.

"You taste salty, P. Sawyer," Brooke said. She held out the hand Peyton was still holding. "What about me?"

Peyton could feel Brooke's pulse on the underside of her wrist. She wanted to lick that pulse, cover it with her mouth, swallow it down so it could sit in her belly and throb. Throb through her from the inside out.

But she just laughed and said, "Nuh uh. You're all sandy."

Brooke pulled her up again, and they tumbled into the house in search of an unspilled beer.

Sometimes things were simple.

Brooke and Peyton linked arms in front of the mirror. Brooke leaned the side of her head against Peyton's. "Are we hot, or are we hot?" She grinned. "Rhetorical question."

"I got that."

Brooke fussed with the sparkly barrette Peyton was wearing. "Wanna go to the movies or something instead?"

"I think we're a little overdressed for the movies."

"Who cares where we go? Dressing over is its own reward."

"But the dance will include food," Peyton pointed out.

"There is that. And I can't really afford a movie right now," Brooke admitted with a sarcastic eye-roll. "Eight dollars for a ticket? What is the world coming to?"

"So the dance it is," Peyton said.

Brooke shrugged. "I guess. Although they are playing that new Johnny Depp…"

Peyton raised an eyebrow. "If you want the movies, we'll go to the movies." Brooke met her deadpan stare with an equally blank poker face of her own. Peyton counted to four, and right on cue, Brooke broke. A big grin spread across her face.

"Right," Brooke said. "Like I'm really going to choose the movies. I've got a new dress on. My shoes kick ass. And I'm walking in there with the best looking girl in school. There's no way I'd miss it."

Sometimes things were complicated.

Brooke was passed out in Peyton's bed. Peyton was staring at the ceiling trying not to hear the soft, slow drag of her breathing. Peyton had her hands tucked behind her head, trapped under her hair where they were safe. Safer. Peyton closed her eyes and tried to match her breathing to Brooke's, tried to force herself to unconsciousness. Tried not to think about Brooke, her Brooke, dancing with Felix, going home with Felix, going home with anyone.

It didn't work.

She turned her head and looked at Brooke through the dark. She made out the curve of her hip, the faint shine of her hair. Her teeth glinted a little where her mouth had fallen open.

Peyton turned on her side, reached out one cautious finger. She touched her finger to Brooke's lower lip, just barely touched her, and drew back. Brooke didn't stir or sigh. She just kept breathing those same slow breaths. Peyton reached out again, put her thumb against Brooke's jaw, and traced the line down, as slow and soft as her breathing. She curved up when she reached the middle of Brooke's chin, slid up until she touched Brooke's lip again. There was just a trace of lipstick left on her mouth. Peyton could feel it. She pulled her hand back, tucked it under her chin.

She stared at Brooke for another long moment. Stared at that white glint of her teeth in the dark. She scooted over a little bit closer. And then a little bit more. She put her palm flat against the curve of Brooke's jaw, sent her fingers into Brooke's hair. Brooke sighed a little, and Peyton held her breath, waiting for the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing to resume. She leaned forward, inched her face closer until their noses were almost touching.

Brooke stirred, and Peyton moved one more time. Covered Brooke's mouth with her own, took the long, slow exhale of Brooke's breath into her own. Once. Twice. Brooke stirred again, reached out lazily. Her hand hovered toward Peyton's face, her eyelids fluttered. Peyton quickly drew back, and lay facing the ceiling again, her heart pounding painfully hard against her ribcage.

Sometimes things were very complicated.

end


End file.
